


Like Real People Do

by spiritalbarn



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues, hancock is self conscious and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritalbarn/pseuds/spiritalbarn
Summary: "I will not ask you where you came fromI will not ask you, neither should youHoney just put your sweet lips on my lipsWe should just kiss like real people do"--- HozierShe has created life, given the Commonwealth hope, and found it somewhere in her limitless heart to come to love him.





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> This particular work is a rewritten, beta'd version of a piece I wrote back in 2016 titled 'High for This'. 
> 
> I am still very proud of it to this day, and I just want Hancock to love and be loved, so take this from me before I go any further with it.

The room around him feels deep, as if everything in it is floating, colors mixing in a smoke-addled haze. He’s warm all over and Hancock’s at the point in this chem-induced daze that he’s comparing the peeling paint of the wall to the pockmarked flesh of a ghoul—it’s ugly, hard to look at, and rough to the touch, but the old state house is home, just like the skin he now lives in as much as he hates it. Despite the unpleasant comparison, it’s damn good, this feeling of weightlessness and satiation when overall contentment isn’t something you cross paths with frequently in the Commonwealth. Laying here in a tangled mess, where the mayor can’t tell where his limbs end and Nora's begin, it’s easy to believe he’s successfully caught that very feeling by the scruff of the neck and drug it back with him to Goodneighbor like the catch of the day.

Another lazy take from the inhaler and Hancock can’t even remember how he ended up like this --- how he got so damn lucky with a beautiful blonde, shucked of her Silver Shroud trench coat and hat only to don a matching blissed out expression with her head on his chest and a pair of mile-long legs hooked around his. If he wracks his brain hard enough he vaguely recalls offering a something like a chem break a few hours prior, and though it was more of a light-hearted joke (the offer definitely still stood, joke or not—he’d never deny a pretty lady her poison-of-choice, that shit just wasn’t right), she took him up on the proposition on the spot. He almost didn't believe her, but it's Nora. The woman alone is a force to be reckoned with, nevermind her resolve.

If she hadn’t ever used chems before, Nora was convincing of otherwise—she downed anything he handed to her, from Buffouts to Mentats, to the Jet entering her system while she took it like a damn pro. With some certainty, you could color the good mayor impressed. But they’d been upright then, with a sizable distance between their bodies as they shared small talk and passed one hit after another, back and forth.

Whatever happened between then and now, he’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant he could enjoy this more often.

Nora shifts, a pleased sigh escaping her, only to dab out her cigarette in the half-full ashtray within reach on the mangled coffee table. It shudders with her movements, leaning oddly on two legs that aren’t broken, and it threatens to collapse by the time she’s finished, but it remains upright. Kind of like her, he muses even through that thick fog that pleasantly clouds his mind. She takes a lot of shit from forces beyond her control, suffered the loss of her husband and her own baby in the same blow; she faces raiders, mutants, and whatever else she comes across in the Wasteland on a daily basis. Sometimes she comes back bloodier than the last time, but she's a bastion still standing. Every single time.

Yeah, he’s pretty damn high if he’s comparing her to a fucking coffee table, now.

“Are you awake?” her voice is quiet, more of a breath than actual sound. She’s lifting her head from its place against his torso, and the blue eyes boring into him with a tired sort of playfulness make something heavy settle low in his gut.

He isn’t surprised she believed him to be asleep when moving and talking hasn’t been something he’s done much of since they landed in this position. Still, though, her voice makes his irradiated heart do something absolutely embarrassing, and he’s only able to answer with a gruff, “yeah,” before she’s crawling further up his body, to settle her cheek against the exposed skin of his shoulder where his coat has tugged to the side (he ignores the pang of insecurity, because his skin is rough and unnatural, and he’s sure it isn’t pleasant to touch). If he turns his head, he could bury his nose (or lack thereof) into her hair if he wanted (boy, does he), but coming on too strong isn’t something of an intention, not when Nora's warmth and weight over him, mixed with the scent of heady cigarette smoke and sweat, is so welcomed. Now it's his turn to sigh. It’s then that Hancock takes it upon himself to guide his arms around her waist. She doesn’t object.

“You didn’t plan on skippin’ out on me while I was knocked out 'er somethin', did you?” The smirk is there in his words before it reaches his mottled features. Hancock doesn’t bother lifting his head to see her smile in return, not when he can already feel it against his skin.

“Of course not,” she chides, “I’m not that kind of girl, Hancock, give me some credit.

A hum of lazy amusement leaves him. “I don’t know, you’re pretty damn scrappy.”

“I thought you liked scrappy.”

“I _do_.”

It’s her turn to giggle now, and it’s a sound that’ll forever go down in the books as the most precious sound in existence. “You wouldn’t have liked me much before the bombs fell, then,” she comments as a finger comes to trace an exposed tendon in his neck. If he had any hair to speak of, it’d be standing on end now with her attention. “I was a lawyer before I had Shaun, and then I was rendered a stay at home mother until—“ Her smile falls. “Well, you know.”

Imminent mood-death alert. _Quick, Hancock, while it’s still salvageable_. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t itchin’ for a good firefight deep down, chickpea.” The image of Nora trading a baby rattle for a pipe pistol in the same second will haunt his wet dreams for the rest of his life.

“Oh, trust me,” she starts, leaning up onto an elbow to hover over him. With one arched brow cocked, her lips, chapped in the dry Wasteland air, spread into a deliberate smile, as if any thoughts of family lost hadn’t crossed her mind (a relief for Hancock by itself), “there were a few clucking hens around the neighborhood that stirred up more than enough trouble to deserve a good ass-kicking.”

“There’s my girl. Never did think you’d be one to take shit from anyone.” And that’s the truth, especially when he’s seen her so often tell it how it is; she’s strong-willed and hard-headed, Nora, but she has never once called someone out who didn't deserve it. It’s certainly something he has always admired of her, even at the very beginning with her first arrival in Goodneighbor and Finn’s unexpected delivery of what he had coming for him (he feels guilty that her first impression of him had been that of a murderer, but he’s sure he’s made up for it since then) and from thereon.

But Nora has fallen silent, now – and if Hancock hadn’t lifted his head from the armrest of the couch they’re splayed over, he wouldn’t have noticed her downcast gaze and idle picking at detached strings that have unraveled from a patch on his coat. With the drugs still swirling in his system, his reaction delays a fraction of a second too late; he’s opening his mouth with a slow blink, but she’s beating him to the first word: “Thank you. For this.”

Hancock’s mouth closes and easily slips into a small smile. “For what?” He knows, he just wants to hear her say it.

“For…” She’s trailing off, brows knitting above stubborn blues with a crease between them in that frankly adorable way when she’s focusing or frustrated. What she could be frustrated with, Hancock doesn’t know, but he’s threading his fingers through the loose blonde hair at the nape of her neck to ground her, anyway. “For offering the chem break in the first place. For being here, and traveling with me. Being a friend in all of this mess.” A pause. Nora's face tilts toward his just slightly, and he can feel her breath on his ruined skin, but she’s so close he nearly goes cross-eyed to hold her gaze --- he swallows hard, and he’s damn sure his heart might beat right out of his chest any second now, praying to whoever’s up in the sky that she can’t hear the rapid thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud that deafens his own ears. He blames the chems for the overwhelming urge to lean forward and claim her lips in a bruising kiss, but he knows it’s no use – this feeling is something that’s been churning low in his gut since the day he met her, and he’ll be damned if he denies it any further. “For everything.”

If there was a thought after her last, Hancock doesn’t give her time to finish it. The hand curled in her hair tugs her forward suddenly, and the slant of his mouth meeting the curve of her lips is the only thing he can muster half a damn about. She doesn’t tense. She doesn’t shy away. Any signs revulsion are absent from her body language in that moment and on, much like it always is and has been, when Hancock really thinks about it – she’s never looked him over and wrinkled her nose, never stared or paled at the thought of being near him. Close contact is standard in their relationship, when patching wounds and administering stimpacks quickly became apart of their daily routine. She has treated him like an equal from day one, not some addict waste of space like some humans he could name might, and he honestly loves her for it.

Whatever sweetness and innocence existed in the kiss is long gone after only a few blissful seconds. A hand at his shoulder and antother coming to press into the armrest beside his cheek, Nora hoists herself up to hover above him, careful to keep all points of contact constant in her movements; with a leg thrown over and tucked between the ruined couch cushion and his body, her hips settle just above his groin, pressing the curve of her ass against the half-hard tent straining at the zipper of his jeans; Hancock has to swallow back the groan that threatens to spill into the minimal space between their lips – her ass has always been something that distracted him with little effort, and all those times he caught himself staring are definitely coming back to bite him now. And it’s like she fucking knows, because the huff that leaves him catches her attention almost immediately because she’s doing the same thing she’d only just done a moment’s prior. Skirting her hips back, only to gyrate deliciously forward once more. The Jet in his system mixed with the friction sends sparks flying behind his eyelids. Had his mouth not been preoccupied in mapping every inch of Nora’s, he might have tipped his head back and moaned.

He’s going to hell in a handbasket while harder than a rock and they’ve only just kissed. His hands are all over her: her back, her hips, her waist, clawing at her shoulders, and dragging down the expanse of her thighs as the air between them heats up a few hundred degrees – Nora’s teeth nip where his lower lip might have been, but the effect is all the same; his toxic blood surges with the electricity drawn from her touch, and what he thinks is a growl tears through him, when really it’s a half-breath, half-moan. She pulls back to smile, heavily lidded eyes locked with his in something absolutely blissful and sinful, but he’s too dazed to notice. Who needed Jet when the embodiment of the best high there is sits in his lap and paws at his chest and clothes already?

The thing that shocks him the most, the thought that flashes brightly in the thick fog still permeating his mind like a buoy in a bay, is the fact that it’s his red coat that slides to a heap on the floor first. Not an article of clothing on Nora’s body, though he is antsy to feel the skin of her torso under his hands soon – it’s she who initiates the first move toward a more … physical situation. She wants this without any suggestion on Hancock’s end; a beautiful woman who wants nothing of his power, his money, or his chem stash – just his intimacy and affection, and that alone is enough to send his mind reeling. Her mouth worrying the rough skin of his neck soon after, all teeth and tongue, hands splaying over his chest and hastily pushing the remaining scrap he calls a shirt from his shoulders, doesn’t help much either.

“Damn, sweetheart,” Hancock croaks, and he can feel the crack in his voice before he hears it, “slow down or there won’t be much for you to en—“ his breath hitches on the account of a hard nip of Nora’s teeth, “enjoy later on.”

But apparently, she doesn’t care, because she’s ignoring his advice and fumbling with the frayed knot in his American flag-makeshift-belt before he can even object (not that he would, anyhow). Her hands shake, impatience evident with her tongue caught between her teeth and stumbling fingers, but Hancock is quick to assist – and within only a second or so, the belt hits the floor, too, just the same.

He’s like a teenager again, nervous and clammy in the capable hands of a pretty lady-friend --- it’s almost sickly sweet, enough to make him swallow around something hard in his throat, that he reverts back to an inexperienced mess with this perfect specimen of a woman paying such kind attention to him. If he were in a clearer mindset, he might very well take his time with her. Work slowly, sensually, draw out and memorize every noise, every breath, every flutter of those golden eyelashes against her freckled cheeks—he might bring her to the point of begging with his tongue and hands, but right now, it’s all straightforward and rushed, the slipping and catching of newly bared skin on skin driving him near-feral. She’s everything he’s ever dreamed of and then some, Nora, and they’ve only just started.

Hancock isn’t sure how much time passes—long enough to sober up, he’d imagine, but he’s too drunk on the taste and texture of her delicate flesh to notice. She’s all curves, from the swell of her breasts to the pretty bend of her waist that flares out into full hips – she has bared a child, obvious of the fading stretch marks that mix and mingle with the scars she’s endured in the Commonwealth that dip beneath the tattered elastic waist of her panties, but Hancock is only that much more enraptured. She has created life, given the Commonwealth hope, and found it somewhere in her limitless heart to come to love him. Nora is fucking perfect in every way, shape, and form from head to toe and everything in between.

“Hancock,” she pleads, nails scouring angry red lines across the mottled tissue composing the flesh of his back and spine, as he arches, the hard length of him slipping deliciously across the inside of her thigh and brushing over the heat of her—he heaves a sigh into the curve of her neck just as she breathes into his ear, “inside me… Please…” And just who would he be to deny her? How could he? He’s already practically aching to bury himself to the hilt in the wet, velvet heat between her legs, always has been – and that’s just what he does in one smooth thrust forward, with her knees cradling his hips and arms thrown around his shoulders like she’s holding on for dear life. She might as well be, because he’s already falling headfirst into a bruising pace, snapping forward like his hips are under the control of a hair-pin trigger.

But his body isn’t a pipe pistol and his hips aren’t bullets—it’s the animalistic instinct bubbling up inside him, spanning from that tight, white-hot coil of heat and desire into every limb, every nerve ending, that spurs him on. It’s the sound of Nora's keening, it’s the image forever burned into his mind of the smooth expanse of her neck bared in absolute trust in him; it’s the tiny “I love you” gasped between hiccuped breaths and moans bitten back into the meat of his shoulder while she desperately cants her hips in an attempt to meet his rhythm, and it’s the sound she makes when she peaks, something akin to a heavenly sigh, hitting his system as the best damn high Hancock has ever achieved. Soon he’s chasing that same release over the edge of oblivion and it’s Nora’s hand at his neck, stroking the marbled tissue she finds there, that grounds him.

Being so completely at the mercy of another human being is an absolutely dizzying experience. Sure, he’s had flings here and there throughout his lifetime, and he’s sworn up and down under many occasions that he was head over heels for the flame of the era, but … What he had here, laying in his arms in the cramped space of the sofa, this was different. Nora isn’t getting up to shuffle about the room, plucking garments from the floor and what caps she could find while Hancock lay knocked out and sawing logs. She isn’t demanding chems, she isn’t dotting a cigarette out into the material of the couch, only to leave without half a proper goodbye. Instead, she’s tracing the unnatural cords and tendons that stretch across his chest with one calloused fingertip, eyelids heavy with sleep and something like a shy smile playing at the curve of her lips. Their legs remain a heap of tangled limbs, but he doesn’t mind, and neither does she. Not one bit.

A breadth of silence passes between them but it isn’t unpleasant, and any discomfort remains nonexistent. It’s welcome in the stale air of his quarters, still crackling with spent energy when secondhand smoke wafts in from the crippling holes in the walls that surround them, especially when he doesn’t get moments like these often. But something tells him, when she finally drifts off into a sound sleep still wrapped in the circle of his arms, they are moments worthy of sticking around for for quite some time.


End file.
